Shoot

I think I'm drunk. And I didn't mean to be. But I'm far gone enough to be unable to draw a martini glass in my journal, so I think that means something. It's a pity. I expected to have a wealth of things to say. Instead, I can barely type. Save me, will you?

I feel bitter about certain things. And pensive about others. I feel as if I have been filled with this sense of dread this week, and I'm not sure why. And it's all the more frustrating, because I'm too tipsy to type properly.